


Reciprocity

by j_quadrifrons



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Caretaking, Comfort No Hurt, Exhaustion, M/M, and martin, love is stored in the sleepy jon, softe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-07 22:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20824640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_quadrifrons/pseuds/j_quadrifrons
Summary: Jon works too hard. Martin doesn't sleep. They're both terrible at taking care of themselves.(The softness we all deserve in these trying times.)





	Reciprocity

Martin tries hard not to stare when Jon comes back, tries not to make it too obvious just how badly he's missed him. In his defense, it's been months, and in that time Jon's been on the run from a murder charge, kidnapped by evil mannequins, and on another continent (apparently also kidnapped by monster hunters), and everyone knows Martin worries.

He seems fine, though? Tired, but they're all tired. The world is going to end, after all, and their evil boss–both supernaturally evil and just ordinary human "murdered someone with a lead pipe" evil–keeps telling them they have to stop it. Martin wants to tell Jon not to bother about the statements, that he can keep picking up the slack, but something tells him that might be a bad idea.

So he stays late, makes tea, passes messages and makes sure everyone is up to speed on plans and meeting times. It's tough, having to discuss anything even remotely sensitive in the tunnels where, frankly, Martin had hoped never to go again, but it turns out he's good at dropping hints and keeping track of who needs to be where. If the stakes weren't so high it would almost be fun.

He's not sure that Jon knows that Martin knows Jon is living in the Archives, but the eviction notice had come to the office sometime in that month when Jon was kidnapped, and Martin's seen the toothpaste in the bathroom sink a couple of times. He used to live here, he knows how it works. But that's a little much, right, making a point of knowing where the guy you have a massive, unmanageable crush on is sleeping, so he doesn't say anything.

But, look, they're all tired, and Martin cannot be expected to just walk away when he's leaving the Archives late one night and he sees Jon folded over on his desk, head pillowed on his arms which are folded over a pile of statements. His heart twinges with affection. Jon looks so _small_ like this, so very young and vulnerable, so unprepared for the responsibility of saving the entire goddamn world.

Martin fights down a fresh wave of anger at Elias for putting them all in this situation and knocks briefly on the doorframe. That's usually enough to wake Jon, who will then insist he wasn't sleeping at all and Martin will go home feeling like he's done something worthwhile. But Jon doesn't stir, even when he knocks again, louder. He coughs, feeling silly. Still nothing.

He considers. He could just go home. That's probably what Jon would prefer–he hates for anyone to see him at anything less than fully put together. But Martin knows he wouldn't sleep if he did, so he steps cautiously into Jon's office.

"Jon?" Even softer than the knocking, of course he doesn't answer. He took his glasses off before he collapsed, at least; they're clutched loosely in one hand. Jon's hair is falling into his face (it's gotten so long, he probably hasn't had it cut since–well, since he fled the Archives in a panic) and Martin resists the urge to brush it back. Instead he lays a hand on Jon's shoulder. It's warm and fragile underneath his palm, the sharp wing of his shoulder blade far too pronounced. "Jon?" he says again, squeezing gently.

"Mmph." Jon stirs slightly and Martin quickly pulls his hand back. "Ow," he complains, twisting his neck from side to side as he hauls himself up, and Martin laughs nervously.

"Yeah, that was why I didn't want to leave you there before I went home." He pauses, pretty sure it's not a great question to ask under the circumstances, but– "You okay?"

He's expecting an "of course" or a withering glare, which is what he's used to when he shows any sign of emotion around Jon, but what he gets instead is a soft, tired sigh, and a, "Not really." He winces at himself and shoots Martin an apologetic look. "I'm just–I should get some sleep."

Martin takes in the way Jon squints against the florescent lights and asks, "Headache?" Jon nods slightly. "Go on, I'll grab you something. Basira's been restocking the first aid kit, it's like a pharmacy in there."

When he gets back to Document Storage Jon is sitting on the cot with his arms braced on his thighs, staring vaguely at ground. He looks up when Martin comes in, but he looks like he's liable to fall asleep before he even gets a chance to lay down. Martin hands over a couple of paracetamol and coaxes him into drinking the whole glass of water before Jon collapses back onto the cot with an exhausted, "Thank you." Martin snags the blanket folded at the foot of the cot and tucks it up over Jon's shoulder.

He's about to leave when Jon turns his face half out of the pillow and murmurs sleepily, "When does anyone take care of you?"

Martin's heart skips a beat and he laughs just to dispel the spasm in his chest. "It's fine, really," he says as lightly as he can. "I don't mind." A long pause where he doesn't move his hand, can feel Jon's warmth seeping through the thin covering. Jon's breathing is steady and even: asleep already. "I like taking care of you," Martin adds, very softly. He sits there for a few minutes, watching Jon relax into sleep, the lines on his face smoothing out for the first time in months, before he finally heads home.

* * *

Martin is finding it difficult to keep his eyes focused. Which isn't surprising; he's been staring at the same handful of statements for more hours than he cares to remember, aware that he's well past the point of being able to do any good but unwilling to give up entirely. He's spent the better part of a year working for Peter Lukas, helping him to develop a plan that would have sacrificed Jon to prevent the Extinction from being born ("safe," it turned out, was a matter of perspective), and even if he's been welcomed back into the Archives without question, he still feels helplessly, miserably in debt to them all. (Jon especially, after he had suggested–but Martin can't think about that.) He has to do something to make up for it, to prove it wasn't all a terrible mistake. There has to be _something_ in all these statements that he's missing, some insight or piece of information that will bring it all together and make it clear what they need to _do_–

There's a soft knock at the door, and he jerks his head up too quickly to see Jon hovering in the doorway, looking like he's trying not to look worried. "It's not that late," Martin says defensively, before Jon can say anything.

Jon bites his lip. "It's not. But you haven't moved in hours and you–Martin, you look _terrible_."

"Thanks." Martin tugs at his hair, then buries his face in his hands. He feels terrible, honestly, not just exhausted but sore and fuzzy and too warm, and now that he's stopped to think about it his head is throbbing. "I appreciate it," he says, muffled behind his hands.

Jon doesn't say anything, and Martin is almost sure he's given up and gone away when he jumps again at the gentle touch of cool fingers laid across the back of his neck. Jon's grip shifts quickly to his shoulder, but the feeling lingers. Martin's throat closes on whatever noise he almost made. "Get some rest," Jon says softly.

Martin swallows twice before he can answer with anything resembling dignity. "I'm fine. Really, I'm fine. I just need to–"

"Martin," Jon says sharply, and it's almost the old scolding tone of voice that used to make him jump and why does he have tears in his eyes? He blinks them back hard. "Please," Jon says, soft and vulnerable. Martin shoves the heels of his hands in his eye sockets, breathing shallowly and willing himself not to _think_ until he can get ahold of himself.

"Fine," he says at last, short and angry. "Fine." He stands up too fast and his knee, sore where it's been pressed against the desk for hours, buckles underneath him. Jon grabs at his arm, and honestly it's almost more of a hindrance than a help but to his surprise Jon holds his weight up easily. Martin has the overwhelming urge to just lean into him and let Jon take over for a while. Which is terribly unfair, he reminds himself; he's got no right to ask that of anyone. He forces himself to pull away, testing his knee before putting his weight on it again.

Jon follows him into the Document Storage room where that same damn cot is still shoved up into a corner, still surrounded by file boxes they'll never have time to sort through. Martin collapses onto it with a huff, and either it's somehow gotten sturdier in the past couple of years or he's lost some weight, which isn't really something he wants to think about right now.

He's about to pull his legs up onto the cot and fall asleep when a light touch on his knee startles him into opening his eyes. Jon is kneeling in front of him–and isn't that entirely unfair, he already can't think properly–head down, picking at the knots in Martin's shoelaces. "What?" Martin says, at a loss.

The look Jon gives him is irritation mixed with fondness, a combination Martin has never seen on him before but that he recognizes, all too painfully, from the times he's worn it himself. "You're not going to want to sleep here with your shoes on," Jon says dryly, "trust me." Then he ducks his head down again, finally picking the first knot free and easing the shoe off. His fingers on Martin's ankle are the only sensation he can process, and Martin grips the edge of the cot to steady himself.

Jon gets the other shoe off, and he stays kneeling there, watching him, while Martin tries to remember what it was he was doing. He yawns. _Right. Sleep._ Jon turns his head, but even as long as his hair's gotten now it doesn't hide the smile on his face. Martin wills himself to ignore the way his stomach is doing slow somersaults and he tips over at last, letting the sagging of the cot drag him down into the middle of it. He's barely awake enough to register the blanket being tugged up over him–he'll be too warm, he wants to object, but it seems like too much work–or the hand that rests lightly on his hair for just a moment. He's asleep before he hears the door close.

When he wakes there's a mug of tea sitting on the stack of boxes that have been repurposed as a nightstand. It's still steaming, and when he takes a sip to wash the horrible sleep taste out of his mouth, it's strong and milky, just how he likes it. It ought to be creepy, he thinks. He knows Jon never paid any attention to how he drank his tea; Jon rarely paid any attention to his own tea. It ought to be weird that Jon knows exactly how to make it and exactly when to leave it at Martin's bedside so it's waiting for him when he wakes up. It's all down to an evil eldritch fear god that none of them can escape, after all, it can't be good.

Martin wraps his hands around the mug and smiles into it anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come yell about TMA with me, I have too many feelings  
[@j_quadrifrons](https://twitter.com/j_quadrifrons), [backofthebookshelf](https://backofthebookshelf.tumblr.com)


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